


Envy

by JuliaJekyll



Series: Good Omens One Shots [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining, References to Shakespeare, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: Crowley envies Aziraphale for so many reasons.He’s not sure if the angel knows this, and he’s certainly not about to tell him, especially since at least three-quarters of those reasons are sex-related.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens One Shots [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544350
Comments: 13
Kudos: 141





	Envy

Crowley envies Aziraphale for so many reasons. 

He’s not sure if the angel knows this, and he’s certainly not about to tell him, especially since at least three-quarters of those reasons are sex-related. 

Aziraphale can touch himself whenever he wants; can run his lovely hands over the soft curves of his body at will, needs only to close a door behind some disgruntled customers before he can sit down, strip himself of the layers he’s always covered in, and sink his cock into the warmth of his fist. 

Does Aziraphale masturbate? Crowley doesn’t know, but just thinking about the possibility is enough to make _Crowley_ want to masturbate. 

Angels, Crowley knows, don’t get aroused unless they specifically want to make it happen - which is enviable in its own right - but demons are almost as bad as humans in that respect. They have to be, in order to tempt properly. Most of the time, Crowley isn’t bothered by the possibility of spontaneous sexual arousal, but whenever he’s around Aziraphale, his cock can never seem to behave itself. Prolonged exposure to the angel often leaves him desperately hard, and when he gets home he can never resist touching himself. He doesn’t usually come - most of the time it’s more about quelling the harsh, merciless desire rather than achieving any tangible result - but when he does, it’s usually with images of Aziraphale’s naked body in his mind. He’s never seen the angel naked, but he’s spent enough time studying the lines of his body under his clothes to be able to imagine he has. 

Crowley glances over at Aziraphale, sees that he’s staring out the window of the Bentley as droplets of rain roll down it. He's got a pensive look on his face, and Crowley feels a kind of internal pinch, an uncomfortable squeeze of want that makes him tighten his grip on the steering wheel in order to stop himself from reaching over to touch him.

These little moments of hard-won resistance have been necessary since...when, exactly? At least the seventeenth century. Crowley remembers meeting Aziraphale at the Globe, watching him eat grapes as one of Shakespeare's actors prattled on about ghosts or vengeance or getting vengeance on ghosts or whatever the fuck it was. He recalls struggling to hide his happiness that Aziraphale had called on him for once, that it wasn't always going to be him chasing after the angel after all.

 _"It would take a miracle for anyone to come and see Hamlet"_ \- and then Aziraphale had given him that look, the look that Crowley still hasn't learned to say no to. With a little quirk of the eyebrows and an innocent, pleading blink - _"would you be so kind, dear?"_ \- Aziraphale had broken him down, and he'd made the stupid miserable play a hit. He comforts himself with the thought that, in retrospect, it was at least a little bit of a demonic thing to do, especially if you asked most of the secondary school students still being forced to read it today. 

  
_I’ve never been able to stand the idea of you not having something you wanted when I could give it to you._

  
Even today, he _still_ prefers the funny ones, full as they are of absurd miscommunications and people who refuse to let a little thing like a frankly appalling lack of trust in their partner stop them from getting married at the end. Crowley would happily marry Aziraphale and no mistake, but he’s glad he hasn’t done it yet if there’s still an even remotely Shakespearean trust gap between them.

  
Lost in his dangerous thoughts, Crowley forgets to indicate before taking a left a few miles away from the bookshop, and the car behind him honks in annoyance. Crowley barely manages to beat back the urge to aim a two-finger salute in the general direction of the back window when he hears Aziraphale’s little choked-off gasp of alarm. _The things I do for you,_ he thinks, _and the things I don’t._

  
Crowley accelerates. The Bentley rolls smoothly over the familiar streets.

  
“Plans for this evening, angel?” he asks, his hands still tight around the wheel. He can feel that his posture is tense, something that he knows will not escape Aziraphale, but he can’t relax. 

  
“Just reading, I imagine.” His hands are in his lap now, and Crowley wants to hold them. He envies Aziraphale's constant access to them. 

  
Half of Crowley hopes that the angel will invite him in for drinks, but the other half hopes he won’t, so that Crowley can go home and jerk off. He’s not hard yet, but something is definitely going on down there. He’s going to come tonight, he’s pretty sure. 

  
“Right,” he says distractedly. He’d like to say more; he’d like to leave the angel with something witty or charming, he’d like to think that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale is going to get out of the car and go into his bookshop and think about Crowley for a little while before he does his reading. As it is, though, he’s too distracted by the prickling in his groin, the craving for touch that he’s starting to feel. He flexes his right hand on the wheel, reminds himself that he’s still driving. _Focus, Anthony. You’re nearly there._

  
He gets Aziraphale home, and the angel smiles at him before he gets out of the car. “That was a lovely dinner,” he says. “Let’s do it again soon?” 

  
“Sure, angel.” Crowley is already shifting back into gear. “See you.” The door is barely shut before he starts driving again. He thinks Aziraphale might have looked a little surprised or even disappointed at the abruptness of his departure, but he can’t think about that right now, because he's rock-hard and if he doesn’t get his hands on his cock soon, he’s going to explode. 

_He gets to take those clothes off now,_ he thinks jealously. _Wish he'd let me do it instead._

  
He’s not going to make it home; he knows that before he even gets to the end of the street. His erection, which is pressing against his trousers so that he has no choice but to spread his legs, is even less patient than he is. Yet another reason to envy Aziraphale: he’s home already, and if he wants to have a wank right now, he can. 

  
That thought travels from Crowley’s brain to his dick like a bolt of lightning, and suddenly, the arousal is completely unbearable. He pulls off the road, performs a quick demonic miracle to block the car from sight, and vaults over the gear stick into the passenger seat, settling into the warmth that Aziraphale left behind. He swears he can still feel his presence, smell his cologne, _sense_ his angelic aura. 

  
There’s got to be something wrong with this; surely it’s not normal to be so overwhelmingly turned on simply by existing in the same place where your best friend existed just moments before, but there will be a time for guilt and self-deprecation a bit later, after he’s come. He’s got to be single-minded until that very pressing goal has been achieved. 

  
As he clumsily unzips his trousers, Crowley remembers that he did this after that first performance of _Hamlet_. Aziraphale had given him a grateful smile after its debut had been a roaring success, and that had been bad enough, but then the angel had actually reached out and squeezed his arm in thanks, and Crowley had suddenly been very glad that he’d chosen to wear those stupid puffy trousers that were so popular back in the day. He’d gone home and come moaning Aziraphale’s name into his threadbare pillow, then fallen asleep wrung out and vaguely sickened by his own satisfaction. 

  
Now he wraps his right hand around his cock and throws his head back against Aziraphale’s seat, relief at finally getting to touch himself spreading through him. He thinks about Aziraphale during dinner, sipping his wine, swirling his glass, adjusting his collar...fuck, Crowley would love to get his hands under that collar. He lets Aziraphale’s voice filter through his mind - what had he said, during dinner, about the bookshop? _I asked them politely to leave, of course; couldn’t have them disrespecting the manuscripts like that...naturally I’d never let the first edition go, but I was happy to part with the second; made a good bit of money off it too...do you think anyone would believe he’d actually signed it, if I told them?_

  
Crowley’s hand moves faster. The words don’t matter; just the voice is enough to get him going. He pushes his hips forward, grinding into his fist. 

  
Aziraphale with wine clinging to his lips. The pleased look of anticipation as he picked up his fork for the first time that day. The smile Aziraphale gave him - _I’m ever so glad we went out today; I was beginning to feel a bit restless._

  
“Restless, were you?” Crowley groans, squeezing himself near the tip of his cock. “I can relate to that.” He bites down on the back of his left hand, stifling a moan. “Been restless for hundreds of years…” 

  
It’s true, he reflects. He’s wanted to grab Aziraphale and cover him in kisses for at least that long; wanted to know what Aziraphale’s body would feel like under his hands, what it would be like to take Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth…

  
“Oh, _Satan_ ,” Crowley moans, then bites his tongue. As a demon, he probably shouldn’t be saying that, but somehow it feels less sacrilegious than saying Aziraphale's name. 

  
“Gorgeous,” he says under his breath, unsure what he’s referring to. Probably just everything about his angel. Doesn’t matter. He drags his teeth over his lip and slides his left hand under his shirt, running it over his stomach. It feels nice; kicks his arousal up a little more. 

  
He’s starting to get wet. He spreads the liquid around. Being close to orgasm is a wonderful thing; it permits one to shed all rationality and imagine whatever one likes, whatever is necessary to get over the edge. Everything Crowley has wanted since God knows when (and he knows that She probably does; She probably knows every thought he’s ever had) rolls through his imagination in a blur - holding Aziraphale, kissing him, running his hands all up and down him, pulling off his clothes, laying him down, pleasuring him…

  
“ _Yessss_ ,” he hisses, gripping the side of the seat with his left hand. His feet push against the floor, he arches his back. It’s been entirely too long since he’s done this to completion, and it feels _sensational_.

  
He tightens his grip again, grits his teeth, and comes, and pleasure filters through his brain, coursing all the way through him as he squeezes his cock to finish things off, rubs gently. _Oof_. That was good. It’s a few minutes before he can move again. 

  
When the use of his muscles returns, he drags himself out of the car and goes over to get in the other side, the driver’s side. He doesn’t have the grace or the energy to clamber back over the gear stick. He starts the car, flips on the lights, backs out of the makeshift parking space, and begins to drive back to Mayfair. 

  
His body is still tingling from the orgasm, and he’s glad of it. It’s a nice distraction from how much he wishes it could have been Aziraphale’s hand on him, bringing him off. 

  
Crowley shakes his head. He’ll think about that in a bit when he’s in bed, he decides, and keeps driving. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know! 
> 
> Let me know what I should write next on Tumblr - julia-writes-fanfic.tumblr.com


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